What was, what is, what will be
by Keltic Banshee
Summary: Sometimes even professional liars have to tell the truth.


Gwen's words echo in Ianto's head as the alarms die down and the cog door rolls back into place, and hit him like the proverbial sledgehammer to the head. It's hard to hide from the niggling voice at the back of his head when it decides subtle is overrated and forces him to confront yet another one of those things that he would rather not have to deal with right now.

'None of you have partners outside of this'.

He sighs, too tired to even consider being annoyed at the words and the implications that Gwen probably didn't even notice. She seems to have a talent for finding the wrong words for the right idea. Her brashness can be a godsend at times, though more often than not it just ends up hurting those around her. Not that he can blame her. Nothing is harder to see than the consequences of one's own actions. It's always easier to see the problem, the negative, when it's someone else's doing. He's been there more than enough times to know that.

Owen and Tosh exchange a look that speaks of wasted opportunities, necessary evils and almost regrets before diving back into their work. One day those two will seize the day and stop hiding behind excuses and pretences. Until then, Owen will still be bitter. Until then, Tosh will still hopeful. Until then, the two of them will still be trapped. Willingly trapped, at that. He can't help but wonder what it will take for either of them to take that first step, to do away with the pretences and make the most of what they have, however broken and imperfect.

'I've lied to him for long enough.'

He catches himself running a hand through his hair, and winces. Gwen's not the only one that lies to those around her… In some aspects, working for Torchwood can be considered being a professional liar. Denial is part of the job. It wasn't an alien, there was never a daughter in the family, the hospital porter took his own life, everything is going to be okay. The collection of standard lies he's accumulated throughout his years in Torchwood would make a conman drop his jaw. Well. Most conmen, at least. That uneasy feeling that hit him the first time he had to hide something under the metaphorical carpet slowly transformed into resignation and acceptance that it is part of the job description. Eventually secrets, lies and misinformation become second nature, an easy-to-wear persona that makes the job easier.

In the end, it's getting out of the habit of pretending and putting on a facade that becomes complicated. In the end, one ends up lying to everybody, just because it is sometimes easier than facing the truth. In the end, the web of lies becomes so thick it can choke anything else.

In the end, being truthful becomes the hard part of life.

Looking over his shoulder he can see Jack, sitting at his desk, _brooding_ — although Jack would probably growl if he ever heard such word applied to Captain Harkness. He never gave a second thought to the idea of lying to Jack, of hiding Lisa from Jack, of using any tool at his disposal to distract Jack while he hid a _cyberwoman_ right under Torchwood's nose. He swallows. Takes a deep breath, struggling to push the memories away. Even after this time it's not easy to look back on those days. He _had to_ save her, at any cost. That was all that mattered. He risked the whole universe for the woman he loved.

And he never thought twice about lying to her. It hits him square in the chest, even though it's not the first time the idea enters his mind. It doesn't get easier to understand, to deal with. He hid Jack from Lisa. He disguised it as being merciful and saving her the pain of knowing exactly how he was buying her relative safety, of knowing that he was throwing the hounds of her scents by _sleeping_ with Jack.

And Jack, the man who has been keeping Torchwood secrets for over a century, trusted him.

He swallows, hand reaching up to loosen his tie, suddenly too tight, too constricting. Slowly, he props himself from the door frame and walks towards Jack's desk, every step its own battle.

Part of him wants to run away and keep ignoring everything that is currently spinning in his head. Just like he does with so many things. Flat Holm. Torchwood itself. Exactly how much he cares for everybody he works with, even Owen and his annoying defence mechanism and Gwen and her oh so human shortsightedness at times.

Part of him knows everything will, sooner or later, come out into the open, and that bottling it all up will only serve to make it explode even more violently. One instance of death threats and guns pointed at each other's heads more than meets the required level of violence between lovers, as far as he is concerned.

It still doesn't make it any easier to take the last few steps towards Jack.

He takes a swig of Scotch — the good stuff Jack keeps in one of the filing cabinet drawers where nobody ever bothers to check — and puts the glass down on the desk. Jack doesn't look up, eyes still lost on the screen in front of him. Probably CCTV from the Plass, or wherever Gwen is right now. Sometimes he wonders what it is between Jack and Gwen, what it is about her that so interests Jack. He doubts Jack himself knows.

He clears his throat. Still nothing. Silence hangs heavy, and he has to convince his feet to stay where they are, because retreat is not an option right now. Not after having come this far. It takes a beat or three before Jack shakes his head, tears his eyes from the screen and turns it off. Jack gives him one of those trademark Captain Harkness smiles. The one that is barely skin deep. The one that speaks of defeat and pain more than any other gesture. The one that stirs something inside him he can't — and probably doesn't want to, just yet — put his finger on.

"So…" Jack raises an eyebrow and smiles even more. The smile never reaches Jack's eyes, still veiled with something between regret and defiance. "Nothing went according to plan." Well, that's an understatement. He raises an eyebrow. Although, of course, it all depends on how 'according to plan' is defined. They did, after all, stop the meat processing operation, retcon the people involved, and put the space whale out of its misery. The world is a safer place, and all of that stuff that sounds vaguely like managerial praise for the troops when everything went to shit and the day was barely saved.

"Just as usual." He aims for carefree and lighthearted but misses by a mile. Jack places his hands on the table, fingertips barely touching their counterparts, and a shiver runs down his spine as memories rush in. He takes a deep breath and pushes them aside. He needs a clear head right now. "You tried, Jack." Jack nods, absentmindedly, but looks away. As if wanting to hide from the whole world. Everything that happened today seems to really be getting to Jack, and he can't tell exactly why. Gwen's remarks and accusations didn't help. The waste of life, of potential, probably didn't either. "You can't save them all."

"Doesn't mean I'll stop trying." There is more than a hint of defiance in Jack's voice. The deep-seated determination to not give up, despite everything that may be thrown their way. Saving lives, protecting the world, is much more than just a job for Jack. It's what makes life worth living. He can't imagine himself doing any other job after Torchwood. After over a century here, the feeling can only be more intense for Jack.

"Someone has to do the job." Jack looks up again and smiles, this time a bit more genuine. It only makes the whirlwind in his head spin faster. He's tired of hiding, of misdirecting, of avoiding. And, if anybody could understand this, it's Jack.

"Yeah…" A pause, barely a heartbeat, as he keeps racking his brains trying to find a way to start. It's always the hard part, the first mention, the first few words. Getting the ball rolling, the conversation started. After that, it's often easy to just let it all out. "Luckily you managed to break free when you did."

He takes a deep breath. Then another that escapes into a sigh. Forces himself to keep his eyes on Jack, watching out for reactions behind the mask of Captain Harkness. Can't help trying to guess how long until the mask is put aside and Jack acknowledges whatever it is that is eating at him right now… Knowing Jack, somewhere between a very long time and never may be a sensible expectation.

"Luck didn't have much to do with it." Jack shoots him an inquisitive look. He can feel blood pounding on his head, and it takes a lot of effort not to turn around and walk out of this conversation right now. Not to lean down and kiss Jack and distract him — or try to — from this line of questioning. He's probably blushing, and that always seems to pique Jack's interests. Hell, he can still remember the days when 'making Ianto Jones blush' was Jack's favourite sport. But the opportunity to clear the air is too good to miss. "You should thank Tosh for it."

Anybody else's jaw would probably have dropped to the floor. Jack's barely moves. An eyebrow goes up and he can see the possibilities playing through Jack's mind. There is a hint of surprise and almost disbelief somewhere. Jack straightens his back, as if an invisible weight had just vanished from his shoulders. Jack stares at him, lips moving without words. As if, for once, Jack Harkness didn't know what to say.

"My, my…" Jack's smile widens and warms. "_Our_ Toshiko?" He swallows and nods, not wanting to give too much away. Certain things are, after all, between him and Tosh. A gentleman never kisses and tells, and all that. There is only so much Jack needs to know, and he can only hope Jack will rein in his curiosity. Last thing he wants is for this to turn into another of Jack's endless pursuits for information he's not ready to share. Although something tells him this is one of those boundaries that Jack will respect. "How…?" The question hangs in the air for a few seconds. It wouldn't be the first time Jack's not-asking technique gets more answers out of him than straightforward questions.

"Let's just say being able to free myself from ropes is a very handy skill to have, in our line of work." At that, Jack laughs and beckons him closer. He picks up his glass and ends up perching on the desk, just like so many times before, one of Jack's hands on his knee, heat seeping through that single point of contact. "And Tosh knows what she's doing when it comes to knots. To human reactions to ropes." Jack nods to that and doesn't say a word. He swallows. "She has a way of explaining the subtleties of control."

There is a hint of regret on Jack's face, a certain 'I should have noticed something' moment. He shakes his head, and bites back the need to explain to Jack — once again — that no person on the planet can be expected to notice everything, handle everything, solve every problem around them. And that he's perfectly capable of asking for Jack's help when he needs it. Eventually. Sort of. Most of the time.

"Why tell me?" Barely a whisper, and the tension in the air around him seems to vanish. He lets out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. Despite everything, it would appear part of him still expected Jack to kick a fuss about this, despite the many times Jack has demonstrated that twenty-first century social conventions don't apply when it comes to Jack Harkness. It would appear some things are hard to believe, despite all available evidence. He puts the glass down on the other side of the desk and leans closer to Jack, a hand running through Jack's hair, fingers light. Jack leans into it and closes his eyes.

"We keep enough secrets as it is." The answer comes as a bit of a surprise. It isn't something that is mentioned often, if at all, even though it seems to be ever present. There is a lot about Jack he has no idea about, despite the many almost-confessions in the middle of the night and quiet whispers and sudden murmurs in the middle of nightmares that Jack denies in the morning. There are way too many skeletons in the closet already, and they are not just Jack's.

Jack nods again, and he finds himself fidgeting, wondering how to explain the whirlwind in his head. It's one thing explaining to your lover that there has been someone else in your life, to a certain degree. Admitting you have no intention of altering the situation is an entirely different kettle of fish. Jack pats his thigh. Reassuring. Comforting. Inviting.

Accepting.

"So, if you are nowhere to be found again, should I give you a few hours to turn up before assuming you've been kidnapped by aliens?" The uncertainty in Jack's voice almost knocks the air out of him. It almost feels like Jack is offering _him_ the chance to say yes, and hoping he'll get the hint and accept it. Almost as if Jack could read him like an open book, and knew exactly what he's been struggling to put into words. He tries to swallow the knot on his throat.

"I care for her. She's…" Words fail him again. What can he say? Tosh is many things. Complex. Comforting. Funny. Caring. Strong and vibrant and a bright smile. Unsure and not scared of being vulnerable. Colleague. Friend. Lover. Explorer of human nature. Teacher. Boundaries always clear, never a word out of place. Beautiful in so many ways. Amazing.

"Unique." He nods. Somehow Jack manages to sound almost disappointed that Tosh never reached out to the mighty Captain Harkness, and at the same time the proud father who'd rather his little girl had never grown up. Yet another of the contradictions in Jack.

"Yeah." And oh so much more that he'd never find the words for. "Are we okay?"

"Why wouldn't we?" Jack gives him a big grin, one of those reserved for the ever more scarce moments of calm after the storm, when the world is once again safe and Jack can be Jack and carry a bit less weight on his shoulders. He rolls his eyes, almost counting down to the remark he can feel coming. Three, two, one… "Do you think she'd mind if I joined in?"

He growls, but it's more facade and pretence than anything else, and there is a smile behind it. Jack will always be Jack, when it comes to certain things in life. And long may it continue.

"She's too much of a lady for you, Jack." He looks down and hooks a finger under Jack's chin, pulling him closer, into a messy and needy kiss that seems to send sparks into the air. The niggling voice at the back of his head, the one that used to ask all the annoying what ifs and how can yous seems to have quietened down. When Jack tugs at his tie, bringing him closer, he almost loses his precarious balance on the desk.

"Do you think she'd at least share some rope tricks with me?"


End file.
